chefbrad

[chefbrad]

“Burnt” Burned By Oscars

Where the fuck was Burnt during the Oscars this year? Another disgraceful dogshit year. I’m seriously bummed. 

Like most people, I find out who the nominees are while watching the live telecast. I knew Burnt would win many awards and couldn’t wait to watch the hardworking cast and crew make their way to the podium to accept their well-earned golden boy statues. After the Academy’s shameless snubbing of the movie Chef from last year’s ceremony, I knew they’d do right by culinary cinema this time. 

The first award was for Best Original Screenplay. Steven Knight’s name was not mentioned in the list of nominees. Ok. That’s ok. Burnt was probably an adapted screenplay. Probably adapted from a beautiful novel I haven’t heard of, but must read immediately. 

Then they gave away the award for Best Adapted Screenplay. Again, no Burnt. 

What. The. Fuck. 

I thought briefly about going into my kitchen and throwing all of my pots and pans against the wall and then taking the huge container of pasta sauce I’d made the previous night and painting the fucking walls. 

But I calmed down in time. So they didn’t like the screenplay. Fine. It was more of an actors’ showcase anyway. 

Then JK Simmons gave away the first acting award. Best Supporting Actress. He said many names I’ve never heard of. Alicia Who? Rooney Huh? Kate Who’slet? But Mr. Simmons did not say the name of Sienna Miller, who was so fucking good in Burnt that I want to KILL MYSELF. I felt like I didn’t deserve to behold such beauty onscreen. Once again, I did not freak out, because I knew that Sienna Miller would be nominated for and win the Best Actress award. Uma Thurman and Emma Thompson both killed it in Burnt too but their roles were so small as to hardly warrant a nomination. Everything would be fine. 

Then came a slew of awards I did not give a fuck about. It would have been difficult to give a fuck even if Burnt had swept them all: Costume Design, Sound Editing, Makeup and Hairstyling. SNORE. How about Best Food Design? Does the Academy realize that someone has to actually make all the food that is shown in movies, and that Burnt was by far the best at this in 2015? Idiot pigs. 

Then Best Supporting Actor. Patricia Arquette read the names of five actors, none of whom had any fucking involvement in Burnt whatsoever. 

ARE YOU SHITTING ME?!?!?!? There were AT LEAST three amazing supporting actors to choose from in that movie. Daniel Bruhl plays a man who both resents Bradley Cooper and is also hopelessly in love with him. THAT’S NOT EASY TO PLAY! How about Omar Sy’s turn as the Bradley Cooper disciple who goes from wanting to kill him to wanting to impress him to ultimately betraying him? What about Riccardo Scamarcio as Bradley’s longtime rival who hates his guts but also basically needs him in order to justify his own existence?! 

Needless to say, this one hurt like hell. But I shook it off. It was time for the big four. 

Best Director was first. 

C’mon John Wells. Let’s fucking do this, Wells. 

It was a hot race. Spielberg. George Miller. The Spanish guy no one likes. The director of Anchorman. And... a fifth guy who isn’t John Wells!!! There was no John Wells in the list of noms!!!!!! This time, you bet your ass I went into my kitchen and destroyed every fucking thing in sight. Had to do so quickly as I didn’t want to miss Sienna and Bradley accepting their awards.

But then I realized something. 

During the entire telecast, I had not seen one camera shot of either Bradley or Sienna. Were they even at the fucking thing?! Surely they wouldn’t miss such an important evening in their careers!!

No. That wasn’t it. They weren’t there because they weren’t nominated. I didn’t even need to hear the nominees. There would be no award for my pals. 

After watching Leo DeCrapio and Brie Butthead Larson accept awards they didn’t deserve, I turned the TV off. I knew Burnt would win Best Picture. And it did. That’s what I’ve decided. Burnt is unequivocally the Best Picture Ever. And it won the Oscar this year no matter what anyone says. 

I want Burnt to come out on Blu-Ray so fucking bad. It’s killing me that I have to wait who fucking knows how long til I can see it again. People tell me I can find it online but I don’t know how and learning seems hard and it’s illegal. But maybe it’s worth it. I would gladly spend a night in jail if it means I get to watch this movie TODAY. Goddamn, it’s so good. 

Fuck you, Oscars. Burnt is king. 

[chefbrad]

On Appropriate Subway Gift Card Dollar Amounts

Morning fat babies. 

First of all, yes, that is MY fucking disgusting fat hand in the photo. Any chef who is in good shape clearly isn’t eating his own food, because it is garbage, because he is a garbage chef. That said, I have been especially fat lately, and I feel like a gross pig. 

Secondly, yes, my fat hand is holding MY Subway gift card. I love Subway.

My fans are shocked when I tell them I fucking love Subway. 

“But Chef Brad!” they scream in my face, “Subway doesn’t use the highest quality meats or produce or soda pops! They use Coca-cola products and we want Pepsi Cola because it’s ten extra sugary calories and we are the fattest little babies imaginable!!!!!” 

YES I KNOW FAT CHILD!!! 

You’re right. Does Subway use the highest quality meats? No. Highest quality produce? Nay. Breads? No, fat child. Cheeses? No (Provolone and American, are you shitting me?). Spokespeople? No, fuck, no.

But one thing Subway does offer is value. And consistency. Two things, I guess. I’ve been going there since I was a young little Chef. I lived above a Subway for a period and enjoyed waking up to the smell of bread being reheated. 

So, I was filled with nostalgic delight when Mother sent me a Subway gift card for Christmas. I don’t speak to her much these days and do not know how she is. The gift card came with no note, no written message of any kind anywhere. That’s Mother for you. But because it was the only thing she got me this year, and because I know she recently inherited a small fortune due to her lover Jeff dying in a retarded accident, I figured, hey, at least I’ll be eating a lotta Subway. You’re ok, Mother.

Guess where I immediately went? Straight to my local Subway. It is run by two quiet middle-aged men from India who will never see their families again. 

“Hello,” one said.

“How are you,” I said.

“What can I get you?” 

“HOW ARE YOU GODDAMMIT,” I repeated. I don’t often extend this sort of caring question to customer service people so when I’m ignored I want to kill everyone. 

“Fine, fine, thank you.” 

“I want a cold cut combo with extra salami, extra ham, lettuce, tomato, onion, jalapeno peppers, banana peppers, the third kind of weird pepper, spicy mustard, creamy Sriracha, regular mustard, oil, vinegar, salt, pepper, cucumber and hot sauce.”

“So the usual,” said the sandwich artist from India.

“Yes! How did you know?” 

“You are Chef Brad, I know everything about you.”

“Oh!”

“You are a genius.”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

Anyways, I’m getting off track. The gentleman made my sandwich and rang me up. It cost eight dollars and some change. I took out my shiny Subway card.

“Brand new puppy,” I said.

“Beautiful,” he said. He swiped it. 

“Gift from Mother,” I said.

“Nice Mother.”

“Nice swipe.”

“Thanks.”

“The first of many swipes!” I laughed, rejoicing. “Let that swipe signal the start of a beautiful business relationship between us that shall go on for years, as well as a burying of the hatchet for me and Mother.”

He chuckled. I felt so full of goodwill towards him and Mother and all mankind. But then I saw him frown at the receipt. “Chef Brad,” he said. “Looks like you have twenty cents left after that transaction.”

“Haha,” I said. “Very funny and charming Subway joke.”

“No. Look.” He showed me the receipt. Twenty cents remaining exactly.

“What the FUCK!” I screamed and stormed out. 

I called my mother and got her shitty voicemail. 

“Mother,” I began. I was a sweaty mess despite the thirty-degree temperature. I could barely see straight. “I don’t know what in Christ’s name you think you’re up to with this Subway prank but whatever issues you and I have I didn’t think you’d go as far as to embarrass me in front of a Subway Sandwich Artist I can never go back there now and even if I could there wouldn’t be enough fucking money on my fucking Subway gift card that you hilariously put TEN FUCKING DOLLARS ON ARE YOU SHITTING ME MOTHER IT’S CHRISTMAS HAVEN’T I BEEN A GOOD SON TO YOU I TRIED TO HELP YOU IN THE KITCHEN ALL THOSE YEARS AND YOU REFUSED MY HELP AND I EVEN LOANED YOU SEVENTY DOLLARS ONCE WHICH YOU NEVER REPAID AND THIS IS HOW YOU FUCKING REPAY ME WITH TEN SHITTY SUBWAY DOLLARS I HAVE TWENTY CENTS LEFT YOU GODDAMN UNGRATEFUL DIRTY MOTHER!”

People were stopping, staring. Staring at the famous chef who’d suddenly lost his marbles. It was all over TMZ the next day. I’m sure you all saw it. I lost my cool. I usually reserve my short temper for the kitchen where there is cutlery to throw at people, but out there in the snow, I had no cutlery and no one to throw it at. 

Mother returned my call a week later and left a voicemail. It was just her laughing like a movie villain for five straight minutes. 

Well played, Mother. But this is far from over.

Let this be a lesson to all of you. If you buy someone a Subway gift card, load that fucker up. Or at least tell them ahead of time, “Hey, this is only good for one sandwich because money’s tight and I don’t give a fuck about you.” 

“That’s nice you’re close with your Mother,” the Indian gentlemen had said to me that day. “I miss my family so terribly.”

If only he knew. I’d trade places with him in a heartbeat. I mean, not really. Of course I would not. I was just saying that to end this post in a dramatic way to underline how upset I am with Mother. I will stay Chef Brad. And you will stay my fat babies. 

Keep cookin’ you fat babies. And Eat Fresh™

I WILL destroy you, Mother.

-Chef Brad

[chefbrad]

MLK Kobbler

PICTURED: MLK enjoying something delicious as a friend looks on enviously

Fat babies, it is MLK day! The day I like to make my favorite dish I’ve ever invented: MLK Kobbler. “Kobbler” is normally spelled with a “C” but because of the “K” in MLK I like to have a little fun and spell “cobbler” wrong.

MLK was one of the world’s greatest men. He loved people. He did NOT love the way things were when he was alive, so he changed them. I’ve tried to do the same things with cooking. I looked at recipes that were popular and said, “No more. I will make spaghetti without sauce. What if I put a fried egg on a plate of spaghetti? Holy shit.” 

I don’t want to say cooking is as risky or as important as the work MLK did. No one’s going to assassinate me for my challenging cooking methods. But if any chef were going to be assassinated for his challenging cooking methods, I believe it’d be me, Chef Brad.

MLK loved food. Collared greens and chicken and other soul foods. There is no record of him ever trying cobbler, or saying “cobbler” out loud. It’s long been a fantasy of mine that I get to give MLK a piece of my MLK Kobbler and watch his eyes light up as he takes that first bite. And I say something like, “Wow what a speech, MLK.” And he says, “Speech? Who gives a shit about speeches! It’s all about the kobbler, baby. Am I saying it right? Kobbler? Mmmm it’s yummy, Chef Brad!!!” 

I believe MLK would have loved MLK Kobbler so much that his productivity in the civil rights field would have plummeted. His “I Have A Dream” speech would be changed to, “I Have A Kobbler Courtesy of Chef Brad, and It’s Yummy.” The kobbler would effectively ruin his life. His legacy would be a fraction of what it is today. Which means I would not know who he is or at least wouldn’t have found him worthy of my kobbler. So then how did I come to invent the kobbler and give him the kobbler and lower his productivity in the civil rights field? You can go insane thinking about it. 

But for now, enjoy my MLKobbler. It has berries and milk in it and other things. The full recipe is available to my premium subscribers. Just message me that you’d like to be a premium subscriber and we’ll figure out a way for you to get me the monthly payment of $39.99! This is a great value that gets you one of my world-renowned recipes each month, or whenever I get around to it. 

Thank you so much MLK for all you did in your time on earth. Happy MLK day to all.

Fuck you, and keep kookin’! - Chef Brad

[chefbrad]

Rice and Beans, The Mysterious Miracle

Fat babies, 

Let’s talk rice and beans.

Rice n’ Beans dates all the way back to Biblical times, a surprising and unbelievable time in our nation’s history when our nation was not yet a nation apparently. People were so stupid then that they didn’t know what America was or that there was land here!

People had nothing in Biblical times. Not even Bibles. Such was the absurdity of Biblical times that the titular novel didn’t even exist yet. And the styles and trends were horrifying. Let’s just say that if this were a fashion blog, I’d rip the Biblical times a new one right now.

As no one had money, Biblical timers had to get creative with their food recipes. Enter “The Beans n’ Rice Combo,” or as it was called, “The Meal We Eat For Every Single Meal Whether We Like It Or Not.” 

Where did rice n’ beans come from? No one knows. Of the many things that Jesus was asked to explain when he showed up acting all cocky and wise, rice n’ beans one of the first that came up. Jesus could only hold up his hands and say, "Whoa, whoa, whoa. Guys. Whoa. I just got here. Throw me some softballs!”  

Rice n’ beans declined in popularity once Jesus turned bread into fish. Anytime he was asked about rice and/or beans, Jesus would panic and just turn some bread into fish to get the person to shut the fuck up. So people kept asking about rice n’ beans because they wanted fish, not because they gave a shit about rice n’ beans. Biblical times were nuts. 

Ok, ok, I hear you, enough history. Let’s get down to my experiments with rice and beans. I’ll start by showing you one of my early attempts at this strange and mercurial dish. 

Those of you who are relatively new to cooking might think to yourself, “I don’t see a problem. I wanna eat it! I’ll eat anything if it means not exercising!” Well for one thing, look at the presentation. If you served this at a restaurant that had three michelin stars, do you think the person who ordered it would be pleased? Perhaps. A person who eats at a three-star restaurant wants to believe everything there is amazing, so you probably wouldn’t hear complaints. But any food critic worth his salt will be able to spot the shoddiness on display here. “Too much rice, not enough beans,” he’ll say. And since I used white rice and black refried beans, the color contrast is too drastic and not appetizing. I don’t know what I was thinking. It was such a long time ago. I was three. 

Let’s look at a different example, from my early twenties. I’d been studying under the tutelage of Chef Fabrizio D’Appolo, an education if there ever was one. One day he said, “Brad, go and get a can of refried beans from the cupboard.” I returned with a can of black refried beans. Fabrizio threw the can against the wall. “PINTO!” he screamed. 

But I was stubborn then. I still believed black beans and white rice was the way to go. At least I got the proportions correct this time, as you see. 

I urged Fabrizio to try it. He took a forkful and put it into his mouth, his expression cold, unmoved. He swallowed, and without looking at me, said, “You’ll never be a chef.” 

Determined to change his mind, I added a special ingredient to the dish:

That’s right, hot sauce. I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of it before. It was right in front of me the whole time. Literally. If you look back at the first photo, you’ll see a bottle of hot sauce sitting on the table that I DIDN’T EVEN USE. Clearly an oversight by my three-year-old mind. 

I slid the plate toward Fabrizio and said, “How ya like me now, Chef?”

Fabrizio looked furious. “You know I like you!” he shouted. “I always have. I love you like a son. I took you under my wing when you were but a boy and, like any child, you have come to be rebellious and spiteful of me, your teacher. But today, you have taught me.”

Fabrizio signaled the manager, who came to the window and said, “What is it, chef? I’ve got tables waiting.” 

Fabrizio handed him my rice and beans dish and said, “This is our special tonight." The kitchen staff applauded. Fabrizio looked at me and winked. I was instantly the talk of Paris, and even landed on the cover of the monthly food journal Beans, Rice, And Everything Nice.

Now it’s 2015 and I am a head chef and Fabrizio has been dead many years. I find myself cooking the way he used to cook, my rebellious days behind me. And now I see he was right: pinto refried beans are better than black refried beans when it comes to the Rice N’ Beans dish. Have a look-see, my children.

Look at the beans. Peppered and fluffed to perfection. 

Look at the rice. You can tell that I added the right amount of water while cooking it, and used butter, and let it sit on the stove for fifteen minutes, then removed it from the heat for fifteen more. Then peppered it. 

Look at the rice n’ beans. Do they not coexist beautifully? Don’t they look happy together? Are they not lifelong friends reunited? I picture myself as the rice and Fabrizio as the beans. And I long to be reunited with my friend in heaven, where we will laugh with Jesus and eat rice n’ beans and wonder where they came from.

Thank you, Fabrizio, for your teachings. Thank you, Jesus, for the inexplicable miracle of rice n’ beans. And to the rest of you, 

Fuck you, and keep cookin.’ 

-Chef Brad

[chefbrad]

Soppressata, egg and cheese on whole wheat

Hello fat babies. Time to put on your aprons, get in the kitchen, and get a-cookin.’ Today I’ll be showing you how to make an egg sandwich. You can use all sorts of different ingredients for this. But if it’s gonna be an egg sandwich, eggs are absolutely mandatory. 

Ok so first you crack the eggs into a thing. It can be almost any thing. 

“Chef Brad, can we use a bowl?”

Yes. 

“A glass?” 

Yes, child. 

“A mug?” 

Yes, my child.

“A plate?” 

No, child. 

“A coffee pot?” 

Child, yes. 

“My bathtub?”

No, little child.

“A colander?” 

No, child. 

“A sieve?” 

A sieve is a colander. 

“So, no?”

No, child.

Let’s do dos huevos (two eggs). 

“But Chef Brad I’m a big fat growing piggy, I need three eggs!” 

Not so. You need zero eggs if we’re being honest. Two eggs is a lot of eggs, three is obscene. Plan a gym visit for later today. 

Stir those eggs. Go nuts. Enter a trance-like state where it’s just you and those huevos. Have a severe look on your face. Nothing matters. You don’t owe the world shit. Maybe you’ll return your mother’s phone call today, maybe not. Who gives a fuck. It’s about the eggs. Just mix ‘em up!

Cut a small piece of butter off a butter stick and chuck it into the pan. It can be salted or unsalted. There is no difference between the two. Chuck it. 

Turn the stove on. The burner should burst into flames. Beautiful, horrible blue fire. Do not call the fire department. We want flames. Fire is the lifeblood of all kitchen masters. 

“Chef Brad, shall I touch the beautiful fire?”

No, innocent child, touch the fire you shall not. We want to eat an egg sandwich for breakfast, not a fat baby’s burnt body! I may be tough, but I’m no witch.

You gotta get that butter nice and hot. How can you tell if it’s hot? You touch the pan, right? NO! Never touch the pan! What the hell is wrong with you? Just rest your hand slightly above the pan and you’ll be able to tell that, yeah, this shit is fuckin’ hot.

Go ahead and pour in your eggs. Are they sizzlin’? They better be sizzlin.’ If they aren’t sizzlin’, and they just kinda sit there like a useless ugly egg puddle, just forget the whole thing. Wash the eggs off the pan, throw the pan in the trash. Cooking is not for you, and neither is this blog. Auf wiedersehen.

The rest of you, whose eggs are a-sizzlin’, well done! 

Once your eggs have become a solid circle of unnecessary cholesterol, go ahead and get your spatula underneath, and fold the circle in half. Now fold that semi-circle in half. Ok, now it’s time to work quickly and frantically! Those eggs are gonna burn! 

Open your packet of cheese slices, hurry! Why didn’t you think to do this before, my child? A good chef has all ingredients prepared before he begins “the big cook.” 

Throw a cheese slice onto the eggs. You left the paper that separates the cheese slices on the cheese slice, so go ahead and pick that slice back up with your fingers. Get that paper off of there. Good job. Put the cheese slice back on the eggs. This is going well.

Put a slice of whole wheat bread on top of the queso (cheese), get a spatula and flip the whole fucker over so the bread is on the bottom. 

Look at the soppressata. It’s lonely, and sad. Wants to go to the pan party. It’s okay to make a little joke here. Something like, “Hey soppressata, there’s a party in my pan and you’re invited.” Go ahead and take a piece of the soppressata and fold it so it looks like a mouth. Make the mouth laugh at your little joke. Then, in a silly voice, make it say, “I’d love to go to the pan party!” Take it to the pan party.

With the soppressata now hanging out on top of the eggs, add another slice of cheese, making sure the paper is peeled off. If you put another piece of cheese on the soppressata without removing the paper after what happened last time, I WILL come to your house and kill you. 

Add another piece of bread and flip the whole thing over again. Flip it again. Flip it again. Good. Flip it again. Some chefs think you only need to flip a sandwich like this one time, but I find that it’s better to flip it about fifty times. So get flippin.’ Flip it. Flip. And flip. And give it a flip. Flip it. The sandwich needs to be flipped. Could ya flip it? Thanks. Could ya flip it again? That’s some good flippin,’ what a good child. Flip it again. Ok, relax. Ok, flip it again. Flip it. Flip. It. Flip. It. Flip. The. Fucking. Sandwich. Again. Flip it, asshole. Flip it again.

You’re all set! Now put your sandwich on a plate and take it outside. Say, “Hello world, I’ve made a sandwich for anyone who wants it!” It won’t be long til the piggies come runnin’ and squealin.’ 

“Why don’t you want the sandwich you’ve made?” someone will ask.

“I’m too fat,” you’ll answer. 

“Gotcha,” he’ll say. “Thanks.” Then he’ll eat it and BOOM, you’re on your way to the gym.

Thanks for reading. A big fuck you and keep cookin’ to one and all. 

-Chef Brad

[chefbrad]

Mario and Me

Dear Ones,

Apologies for the lapse in posts. Have you all starved to death? Did you eat your laptops? Poor fat babies.

Can’t pretend I’m too sorry for my absence, as I’ve been in Paris with my friend Mario Batali and, believe it or not, he makes far better company than a bunch of hungry little piggies drooling on their keyboards (no offense!). If you don’t know who Mario Batali is, do me a favor and go to your kitchen and wave goodbye to your stove, your oven, and your cutlery (you’ll probably have to look up the word ‘cutlery' before waving goodbye to your cutlery). Move to an apartment that doesn’t have a kitchen as you don’t belong in one. Eat fast food takeout the rest of your life and die of heart disease.

Mario and I meet up in Paris every year. We never decide on an exact location in Paris to meet. We just go to Paris in our separate private planes and hope for the best. Neither of us has a cellphone. Honestly, sometimes I never find him. I check our favorite hangouts (the Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, Disneyland Paris), and if Mario is nowhere to be found, then we just weren’t meant to spend that week together. When we do find each other, however, it is sublime. 

You’re wondering, “But Chef Brad, Mario is an Italian chef and you’re an American chef! Why do you meet in Paris?” Because, like all artists, chefs need to take breaks from thinking about their craft and reconnect with other beautiful aspects of human life, such as Parisian sunsets, trying on berets while laughing, and the Indiana Jones et le Temple du Peril rollercoaster. This is NOT me advising you to abandon your kitchens for the day so you can go see the new Jason Statham movie. Not a single one of you will earn the right to take a break from your craft until you actually learn the craft and get that soufflé to stay standing (and once you do, never make another soufflé again. No one actually enjoys them, they are simply a measurement of how skilled a chef you are. The soufflé, like all Parisian cuisine, is terrible. That’s why Mario and I go there).

While Mario and I abstain from talking about cooking, we can’t stop ourselves from cooking together. This is a great exercise for chefs to do together: create a dish without a single word passing between you, and see what you come up with. Mario and I silently collaborated on the delectable dish you’ll see below:

It is a French omelet (pronounced ah-mo-lay). C’est magnifique? 

Normally I’d provide instructions for how to replicate such majesty in your own kitchen, but I honestly can’t remember what we did exactly. I think the both of us, Mario and me, entered a dreamlike state where we were completely tuned into each other’s souls. I do know his strong hands were on mine when I broke the eggs (was it two eggs? Three? I wish I knew!). And I believe we stared directly into one another’s eyes as Mario expertly diced the tomatoes, the fastest dicing I’ve ever seen. And I know for absolute certain that Mario was wearing his classic “sausage scarf” as pictured here (I took this photo): 

I remember looking at him as if to say, “Mario, might we break one of the sausage links from the scarf and add it to our creation?” 

He took my face in his hands and pressed his forehead gently to mine, as if to say, “Let’s not ruin the integrity of the scarf.” 

So, my children, I have no recipe to provide you with today. All I can tell you is that the omelet, if such a word, any word, can do it justice, was the most glorious thing I have ever tasted. 

I love you, Mario. See you next year. If I can find you. 

To the rest of you,

Fuck you, and keep cookin’!

-Chef Brad

[chefbrad]

Everything My Mother Did Wrong When Preparing My Breakfast

No chef enjoys criticizing his mother’s cooking. Who instilled in every great chef his love of food if not his mother? I remember my first sandwich. My mother made it for me. A beautiful, beautiful sandwich. I bit into it and my eyes lit up.

“Mama!” I exclaimed. “But what is this delicious treat?!” 

“It’s a sandwich.” 

“Well, I like it!” 

“One day you will have a great blog.” 

What a day that was. Ah, the nineties. Sandwiches were everywhere back then. I love my mom. And she’s a fine cook. But there comes a time in every master chef’s life when he surpasses his mother in kitchen prowess. It’s inevitable. It’s painful. For both the master chef and his mother. One day she and I were cooking spaghetti. Simple, easy dish. She was about to drop a handful of spaghettis into the big pot when I grabbed her wrist.

“Mother,” I said, calmly. “The water hasn’t yet reached a boil. Let’s wait a bit.”

She slapped me in the face and went to her bedroom. She cried there for seven days. Her wailing could be heard throughout the village. My father walked towards me, slapped me and said, “What got into you, boy? Are you out of your mind?” I never saw him again. 

My mother and I have since repaired our relationship and I can now openly critique her cooking and she knows not to argue. So let’s take a look at a dish my mother prepared and explore what she did wrong. 

So this is what we master chefs commonly refer to as “a complete fucking disaster.” I guess it’s an omelette? Not sure what the intent was here. So where did this “meal” go wrong? I can’t speak to its flavor as I obviously was too disgusted to even take a bite. But there are simple tips my mother should know about should she cook anything else ever again (God help us). 

1. CHEESE OVERLOAD

Right off the bat, you’ll notice one major flaw: way too much cheese! I asked her what on earth she was thinking and she took me through her process. 

“Cheese is good,” she said. 

Sure, cheese is good. Water skiing is good, but do I want to water ski all day? Maybe for like half the day. But all day? This amount of cheese is the food equivalent of water skiing all day. Impossible. 

My mother said she uses the cheese to cover up her mistakes. The omelette breaks in places, so she uses the cheese as an adhesive to heal the “omelette wounds.” My advice? Don’t make those mistakes in the first place. But my mother doesn’t work in a professional kitchen. Nor should she. Nor could she if she wanted to, ever. 

2. TOMATOES GO IN THE OMELETTE 

I tell this to my students all the time. If you’re making an omelette with tomatoes, go ahead and PUT THE FUCKING TOMATOES IN THE OMELETTE. Don’t put two slices of tomato on my plate and call it a “garnish.” That’s like flapping around in a lake like a goddamn idiot and calling it “water skiing.” I don’t know what possessed my mother to put two slices of tomato on this plate. And she didn’t even salt them or pepper them. She just threw them on and then hid them with bacon, hoping we wouldn’t notice. The woman hides everything with bacon. She once hid my car keys when I was 16, grounding me from driving. Didn’t take long for me to find them under that huge pile of bacon in her bedroom. I was back on the road in no time, barely able to grip the steering wheel with my greasy fingers.

3. WASTE OF GOOD BREAD  

I bought that marble rye during my stay in Greece, the capital of marble rye and water skiing. That bread cost me a fortune. My mother thought I’d be just delighted to see my marble rye sharing a plate with this concoction. Not so much. I was planning on making us all authentic reubens like the ones I had in Greece, where I summer. And sure, there was plenty of marble rye left over for me to still make the reubens. But mother blew it for everyone. I wasn’t in any kind of mood to make anything for anyone after this betrayal. 

4. NO FORK, NO KNIFE, NO NAPKIN? NO PROBLEM! JUST KIDDING, THAT’S A HUGE FUCKING PROBLEM!

Three things almost every person needs to eat an omelette: a fork, a knife, and a napkin. Sounds easy, doesn’t it? Look at the photo. My mother has supplied none of them. You think, maybe they’re just not in the photo. You’re wrong. I was there. She set the omelette in front of me and left the room. To go where? To get me a knife? A fork? Maybe a napkin? No. She went on a date with her loser idiot boyfriend Craig, who can’t even regular ski, let alone water ski. She was practically begging me to eviscerate the omelette on my blog. It’s as if she was saying, “This omelette sucks, so I’m not supplying you with the tools you need to eat it. I have supplied you with hot sauce however, because I am out of my mind. Please take a photo of this omelette and eviscerate it on your blog.” 

It’s no fun to watch your heroes fail in this way. The mother who introduced me to sandwiches, and made them well, is a woman I have not seen in a very long time. I wonder now, did she ever exist? Did my own inexperience in the kitchen allow me to enjoy food that actually was subpar? Who knows. What’s important is that my mother reads this blog post, and reads it carefully, so that something like this won’t happen again. Good luck mother. Despite everything, I do love you and I remain your son.

To the rest of you, I remain your master chef. And I say unto you, my children,

Fuck you, and keep cookin’! - Chef Brad

[chefbrad]

Spaghetti Squash

“Waaaaaaahhhhhh, there’s no more pasta in my pasta hidey hole!!! How am I gonna eat spaghetti without my pastaaaa?! Waaaaahhhh I’m a cwying wil’ baby boy or a baby girl waaaaaaahhhhh me wanna fatten up for winter waaah!!!” - my impression of all of you. 

Poor lil’ fat babies. Want some grownup advice? Quit cryin’ get squashin.’ 

Spaghetti squash, discovered in the late eighties by actor Timothy Hutton, is BETTER than pasta. Better for your wallet, better for your waistline, better for your self-esteem, better for the way you’re perceived in the world, better for America, better for your tastebuds. It’s just better. And, yeah, don’t worry, you can put pasta sauce on it, fatties. 

I start by going to my local grocer and saying, “Hi. Do you have spaghetti squash here?”

“Oh, yes!” says some awful lady. 

��Great. Please direct me to the spaghetti squash, please, moron.”

“All our squashes are over there, my good man!” 

I walk over to where the squashes are. I pick one up. I take it to the register. 

“I would now like to purchase this spaghetti squash,” I say.

“But sir, that’s a butternut squash!” says the wretched woman.

“Oh! Silly me!” I return the folly squash to the squash pile. I pick up a different squash, certainly the correct one, and take it to the register.

“Nope!” says the lady. “Wrong again! That’s a delicata squash! Sometimes called a sweet potato squash because of its texture and creaminess! Lol!” 

“Wow, just isn’t my day I guess.” 

I get a new one.

“That’s a hubbard!”

I get a new one.

“That’s a pumpkin!”

New one.

“Kabocha!”

New.

“Calabaza!” 

Get the point? None of this actually happened. I’m simply trying to demonstrate that there are over 281 squash varieties and if you go to the store not knowing what the fuck you’re looking for, you’re in for a long day. I would do a few google image searches before piggy goes to market. 

Got your squash? Good now preheat your oven to 375 degrees. Stressed out already? Stick your head in the oven and kill yourself. It’s not THAT hard a recipe, people.

Now get the big knife and CHOP THE FUCKER IN HALF!!! The squash. The spaghetti squash. Do it now. 

Now brush the disgusting insides with olive oil. Use your hands if you don’t have a paintbrush. Now get some salt and pepper involved. Yeah. Good. This is gonna be good, maybe.

You have a baking sheet, right? Please tell me you have a baking sheet and are not a fucking moron. Yeah, you have a baking sheet. Go ahead and put the two halves down on the sheet so the insides are facing down. Now stick the sheet in the oven for 40 MINUTES. 

“But Chef Brad, cooking pasta takes less time than this and I like it better because it makes me nice and fat!! I--I--I can’t even!” This is my impression of someone who’s about to delete this website from their browser history and go take a long walk off a short pier and say “whoops didn’t know this pier was so short, now I’m all wet!” Idiot. I don’t need you. No one does. 

Ok it’s been 40 minutes, my children. Put your oven mitt on and take that pan out. Get a fork. DELICATELY separate the strands - which, I think you’ll agree, look enough like spaghetti for this squash to be called a “spaghetti squash” - from the squash and put them on a plate. Or you can put them in a bowl. Or you can put them in a coffee cup and throw it out the window. I don’t give a fuck. 

Put sauce on it, put butter on it, put tabasco on it, put mustard and ketchup on it if you’re out of your mind. Go nuts. You now know how to save money and calories, and you’ll hopefully use the extra cooking time to do something useful, like writing Chef Brad a big fat thank-you note for the awesome, delicious recipe! Here’s what I’ll write back:

Fuck you, and keep cookin’! - Chef Brad

[chefbrad]

No Pasta Sauce? No Problem!

Ah the joys of pasta cooking! I love cooking with pastas. You got your pastas, you got your pasta sauce, and then you got cooking! Three of my passions.  But what if you don’t have sauce? What are you going to eat? Just regular pastas with no topping? Don’t be a fucking idiot. If you take my Advanced Cooking With Sauceless Pastas class, you’ll find you don’t need sauce at all. If you have sauces in your home you’ll probably throw 'em out after this, my sauceless pastas are that good.

Ok for this recipe you need some shredded cheese and some salami and three eggs. And a half pound of pasta because you’re a big boy/girl!

Start by getting the big, big pot. The biggest pot in the bottom cupboard. Where did this pot come from? Did you buy this? Fill it with water. All the way to the top. Dump half the water into the sink. 

Salt the water. Get that water all salty. Get it nice and ocean-like. You want the water to taste like the ocean (if you’ve never tasted an ocean, may God have mercy on your paltry soul). 

Is the water boiling yet? Good. 

Empty the entire pasta box/bag into your hand. Get half in one hand, half in the other. Make fists. Do your pasta fists match in size? Good, that’s what we want. Now put one of the fistfuls back into the pasta bag or box and shut them away in the cupboard until they have their dreaded day in the hot pot. Probably tomorrow. You really like the pasta, everyone can tell!

Throw the other fistful of pasta branches into the big pot of bubbling, boiling seawater. Look at how they remain firm at first, the fools! Soon they’ll grow tired and begin to bend under the crushing inferno of saltwater. Ha! The power I wield over all food items. None of them scare me.

Okay now you have to work frantically and become very stressed. Grab your skillet! Put it on the other burner! Butter it! Get the butter hot and melted! Grab three eggs! Crack ‘em! Faster, idiot! Crack ‘em into the pan! Oooooh they sizzlin’ now. Fuck yes. Look at those little bastards. Don’t even know what hit ‘em. 

You want ‘em nice and fried. Over easy. Turn ‘em over. Now get the salamis! Throw two on each egg. Look at this. Now throw some shredded cheese on the salamis. Wow. Great job. Who do you think you are? Me? Fuck you. 

Don’t forget the noodles! Your noodles are noodles now! Take the big pot and awkwardly hold a colander in the other hand as you precariously dump the scalding hot concoction into the colander. Did you burn yourself? If so, this is not the blog for you. 

Add a shitload of olive oil (EXTRA VIRGIN you cheap fucks!) to the noodles and salt and pepper as well and mix it all up. Atta baby. Put the noods on a plate and top with your burnt salami-and-cheese-covered eggs! Can you say “voila”? Can you? Can you pronounce it? If not, delete this blog’s website from your browser history and never return. I never want to see you again. 

You’re ready to manja! Enjoy, my hungry pig children. And remember, you can only enjoy this dish two or three times before the mere thought of it makes you very sick. 

Fuck you, and keep cookin’! - Chef Brad

[chefbrad]

Cold Tuna Melt on Wrap

Ok FIRST AND FOREMOST I need to address the hate mail I received yesterday following my post, “Tuna Melt on Wrap.” First of all, if you take issue with any of my posts, remind yourself that I’m doing this blog FOR FREE. If you don’t want my cooking tips, good. Go whistle. But don’t read my free cooking tips and then flood my inbox with poison. I’m a master chef who’s taking time away from his kitchen to teach you morons how to cook and you come at me with hate mail? Gross.

You skunks accused me, a professional chef of thirty-six years, of not knowing how to wrap tortillas! Absurd. I taught a tortilla folding seminar for eight-and-a-half fucking years, you rogues. If you actually read my post and looked at the photo, you’d see that the tortilla wrap thing was way too burnt to be properly folded. And I DID THIS ON PURPOSE. Some of you accused me of burning it “accidentally.” Well maybe I’ll burn you “accidentally” in my KENMORE ELITE DUAL OVEN AVAILABLE AT SEARS.  

Anyways, to silence the haters I’ve posted the above photo to show you that I know how to fold a fucking tortilla. I can’t believe I have to do this. For those of you who said nice things, thanks, you guys are rock stars. The rest of this post will teach you how to make this delightful “cold tuna melt.” Rock on.

Remember how I told you to make the tuna mix yesterday? Do that. I’m not gonna go through all the steps again, I have a party of thirty coming in here soon and I have to make two of these sandwiches for every single one of those fatties. 

Take two pieces of muenster and put them on the wrap. Now add your tuna paste mix stuff. Now douse everything in Frank’s Red Hot. Don’t be a pussy about it either. I don’t have time. 

Now tuck the sides of the wrap in and then wrap it expertly WITHOUT WATCHING THIS YOUTUBE VIDEO THAT DEMONSTRATES HOW TO WRAP TORTILLAS. If you honestly need this video demonstration of how to wrap tortillas, you need to find a blog that is more geared toward beginner cooks like you. The rest of you, wrap that shit up and put it in your goddamn mouth. Boom, cold tuna melt. Thanks for reading.

Fuck you, and keep cookin’!

-Chef Brad

[chefbrad]

Tuna Melt on Wrap

Made this yesterday for lunch. Magnifique. Pretty complicated, but you might have a chance of replicating this. 

First, get a can of tuna. I like albacore. Solid white albacore. I buy them in four-packs from Rite Aid. Open the tuna, drain the water from the can. Dump tuna into bowl. Dump it. Add diced tomatoes. Do you know how to dice a tomato? If not, you may want to start with a more novice-geared cooking blog as this one is experts only. This cooking blog assumes you know how to fucking dice a tomato. Good Lord. 

So you dice the motherfucker tomato and add its little bitch ass to the tuna bowl. I used one teaspoon of mayo (short for “mayonnaise”) and one of french mustard. FROM ACTUAL FRANCE. That’s important. If you can’t afford to go to Paris two measly times out of the goddamn year to replenish your authentic french mustard stock, once again, please stop reading this blog right now and go to a more beginner-friendly blog. I don’t have time to field questions from impoverished amateurs.

Add salt and pepper and Frank’s Red Hot and mix it all together. Now you’ve got your “tuna paste.” 

Ok, take your skillet and put a slab o’butter on it. Heat it up and spread it around. Take a whole wheat “wrap thing” and put it on the skillet and set it to medium heat. Go back to mixing your “tuna mix.” Forget the wrap thing. Forget all about it, so that it’ll be nice and burnt up. You want it crispy. Don’t you? 

Now it’s time to add cheese to the wrap thing. I used one square of gouda and one of muenster. I had one gouda left over, so threw that on. The pack of muenster was new.

Add your “tuna base.” Spread it around. Do it. 

Go ahead and throw a second muenster square on top. You just bought the pack so there’s plenty of muenster squares left. You can afford to have a good time and enjoy a cheesy tuna melt. Fuck it. Be sure to peel paper off of all cheese squares.

Is your cheese nice and melted? Hell yeah. Peel the burnt wrap thing from the skillet, and move to plate. Try to wrap the wrap thing into a wrap. It won’t exactly work. It’s too burnt. This is fine. This is ok. This is exactly what I meant to do. 

Take a picture of it and send it to me so that I may have a nice laugh over how much you missed the mark on this delightful snack. 

Fuck you, and keep cookin’! 

-Chef Brad

[chefbrad]

Here's the pic of PROPERLY DICED tomatoes/onions you guys have been begging me to post. It ain't rocket science, people. Happy to come by and give you a lesson. May I get back to my kitchen now?!

[chefbrad]

REID IS DA BEST!!!

I just made this little fella here, and I dare say: he’s handsome. Been reading Color and Light by James Gurney, decided to try out gamut mapping for the color scheme, and look at all those colors! So mapped, so … gamut.

I made the rough draft while watching bradaustin and the cast rehearse, and it should be a pleasant time full of laughs and also probably some acting. Check it out!

[chefbrad]

On Diaries Oops I Mean Journals

I was just reflecting on how much I loved this book as a kid. I think it had as big an effect on me as any book has. 

I am referring to 3rd Rock From the Sun: The Official Report on Earth by High Commander Dick Solomon. The NBC show 3rd Rock From the Sun debuted on January 9, 1996 and the book was published that November. If you’re not familiar with the show, it’s about aliens in human bodies sent to earth to gather information on being white.

The book alternates between the characters’ points of view. Dick would talk about the amount of butt-slapping that goes on in sports, and then Sally would talk about how men can shave their pubes if they want, but women have to shave their pubes. 

I loved its journalistic quality and how they included actual handwriting, not just typed words. This is the book that first made me interested in keeping a journal.  I wanted to take notes like the ones in the book, to observe the world like I was a member of Dick Solomon’s alien tribe. I got a notebook and started writing about my family members. I’d monitor my mom for a few minutes and make pretty insightful observations like, “Mom’s in the living room. Now she’s in the kitchen.” Not as hilarious as the stuff in the book, but you can see the potential!  

I’ve always had a conflicted attitude towards journaling. Every time I journaled as a kid, there was a part of me that felt like it was an odd thing to do. Even now, I get made fun of for keeping a “diary” and my friends tell me I probably have a picture of a pony on it. First of all, it’s a journal, not a diary, so joke’s on them! And I don’t have a pony on my journal! Not that it’d be a big deal if I did. If I want to draw a pony on my diary-I-mean-journal, I will. 

The diary/journal distinction is an important one. I don’t have a diary, I have a journal, because I am a boy. Journals are for boys and diaries are for girls. Doug Funnie had a journal. On every episode of Doug, Doug sits at his desk and writes in his journal about his day and how he felt about it. This not only served as an effective plot-framing device, but it helped young boys feel okay about keeping a journal if they fucking wanted to. But the Doug writers wouldn’t go so far as to let Doug have a “diary.” They weren’t raising a nation of sissies. 

One episode had Doug losing his journal and trying unsuccessfully to use construction paper and toilet paper. As this Doug-themed tumblr points out, Doug spends this episode adamantly telling everyone that his journal is a journal and not a diary.

Then again, who needs the distinction? Richard Burton called his journal a diary, and he was a classic man’s man. The Richard Burton Diaries is one of the best reads I’ve had in a while. Burton liked to drink. A lot. He liked to have sex with Elizabeth Taylor. And he liked to write about himself and his feelings in a diary. Some entries would go for pages, and some were just a few words, especially when he was aging and still deep into the booze:

Tuesday 17th Read, wrote, biked. Still drinking but not much. Wine only. Wednesday 18th Boozed mildly. Weather dreadful. Thursday 19th Same Friday 20th Same Saturday 21st Same. Starting to feel ill.

My mom got me the book a couple Christmases ago. My dad said, “Richard Burton? Who the hell would want to read his diaries?” It’s true, there are many people who’s diary I’d be more interested to read. Like my dad, for example! That’s the number one book I want to read, though it sadly doesn’t exist.

It feels weird to admit I enjoyed Burton’s diaries much more than I enjoyed Anne Frank’s, though I guess “enjoying” her diary isn’t the point. But I do  enjoy this early passage, where she talks about the act of journaling itself.

“I haven’t written in a few days, because I wanted first of all to think about my diary [Anne Frank definitely had a diary not a journal]. It’s an odd idea for someone like me to keep a diary; not only because I have never done so before, but because it seems to me that neither I - nor for that matter anyone else - will be interested in the unbosomings of a thirteen-year-old schoolgirl. Still, what does that matter? I want to write, but more than that, I want to bring out all kinds of things that lie buried deep in my heart.”

The passage is remarkable not only for her being thirteen and using the term “unbosomings,” a word I have just now written for the first time as a thirty-year-old man, but because we get to see Anne struggling with the same thought everyone has when beginning to keep a diary. That is, “What the fuck am I doing? Like I’m Anne fuckin’ Frank all of the sudden?”

Everyone who starts writing a diary/journal, I’m willing to bet, has an early entry where they write something like, “Well, this is weird! Guess I have a diary/journal now?” It’s weird for you to have a diary because, as Anne Frank eloquently expresses, who would possibly give a shit? The answer is everyone, as we have seen with the runaway success of Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl. I admit hers is an extreme case as very few of us have to worry about Nazis. But I can honestly say that I want to read your diary, whether you’re trying to avoid Nazi capture or buying presents for Liz Taylor while shit-faced or you’re just a person trying to get laid and eat a nice meal once in a while like the rest of us. 

But at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter who would want to read your diary/journal. It isn’t for anyone but you, as Anne quickly realized within the above passage. Your diary/journal is to help you unbosom yourself to yourself, to bring out all kinds of things that lie buried deep in your heart. 

Anyway, it’s a great book and you should read it. Again, I’m talking about the 3rd Rock From the Sun book. The Anne Frank book was fine, but I didn’t even laugh once. 

[chefbrad]

Barista Makes Sarcastic Music Choice

It’s not even that I dislike Sheryl Crow. 

I mean, I don’t like her. I don’t feel anything about her. But there’s a time and a place for Sheryl Crow. Like Rite Aid. When I walk into Rite Aid and Sheryl Crow is on, I don’t even notice. That would be like noticing the cashier has pants on. Because Sheryl Crow belongs in Rite Aid, and so do the cashier’s pants. If they were playing Panda Bear or something, that would create cognitive dissonance in my brain and throw off my whole day. Especially if the cashier were pantsless. Hearing Sheryl Crow in a Rite Aid where all the cashiers wear pants means the universe is going according to plan. 

Likewise, when I walk into a particular coffee shop in my Brooklyn neighborhood I expect to hear almost anything besides Sheryl Crow. Once again, nothing against Sheryl Crow, but a skinny, tattooed barista dude with a backwards skull-and-crossbones hat and thick-rimmed glasses would only play Sheryl Crow (at nine in the goddamn morning) ironically. He knows we don’t expect to hear Sheryl Crow in this place so he puts on Sheryl Crow because that would just be hilarious. Or even worse, maybe he’s trying to prove a point about taste and hipster stereotypes. Like, “You guys assume I don’t like Sheryl Crow because of my tats and hat and general ‘hipster’ demeanor. Well GUESS. WHAT. I fucking love Sheryl Crow. I’m turning your assumption on its head and blowing your MIND!” 

I hate the word “hipster” and try to avoid it, but putting on Sheryl Crow at the coffee shop you work at for the sole purpose of challenging people’s assumptions of what you listen to seems like an explicitly hipster move. You’re assuming we assume anything about you at all. No one gives a fuck, guy. We just want coffee. 

Sheryl Crow’s duet with Kid Rock comes on. “Picture.” There’s a guitar solo in “Picture.” It’s not good. The barista points this out. 

“Dude, that cheesy guitar solo? You know they were like, ‘Hey Kid, let’s get a real pro in here to nail this guitar solo,’ and Kid was like, ‘Nope, I got it.’” 

I don’t hate this comment. If he was my friend and said this to me at the bar or something, I might laugh and tell him how Kid Rock is basically the mayor of the town I’m from. But it was how loud he said it, how he wanted all of us in the place to hear. A girl across the cafe smiles at the comment, a girl I once thought would make a good potential mate for me. No longer. This fellow thinks he’s bringing people together to ironically celebrate Sheryl Crow and Kid Rock and bask in his hilarious commentary, but he’s actually creating a wedge between coffee-drinkers who could have potentially mated. 

Last time I was here, he played an Eric Clapton acoustic live album in its entirety, so it could just be that he hates everyone and wants us to feel bad. I know what it’s like to serve coffee all day, feeling so many antisocial feelings and being unable to release them in any way. It’s understandable that he’d hold all of us in contempt. So let him enjoy this. What would I do anyway? How do you fight against a thing like this? Would it be worth it to politely walk up to him and say, “Excuse me, you seem okay, but I feel like you’re playing this music as a sort of social experiment, and I get it, I really do, but maybe you could just put on something you actually enjoy and maybe we’d enjoy it too and possibly even make a real connection based on that commonality.” 

I dunno. Maybe he really fucking loves Sheryl Crow. Maybe he’s a total Crow-Nut.

[chefbrad]

DAYS FROM WORST TO BEST

Some days of the week are just way better than other days of the week. No question about that! Here is my list of days of the week, ordered from worst to best. I know that some people will be shocked by my rankings, but I’m open to hearing your choices, and maybe starting a dialogue. I don’t have much going on these days and I am open to new friendships. It’s just me and my wife’s cat. That’s him up there. Jasper. Honestly, for me these days, everyday is pretty much the exact same, so I don’t even care.

Tuesday

So, people hate Mondays a lot. They act like mondays killed their spouse. No one ever mentions that after monday kills your spouse, tuesday whispers in your ear, “I am pleased by the death of your spouse. I had intercourse with your spouse and your spouse was a lousy lay.” Monday is bad in nature because you have to go back to work, where everyone knows about your spouse’s untimely passing and puts on a sad face. But they don’t understand. So of course mondays hurt. But we’re actually encouraged to complain about monday. You can grab your boss’s face and scream, “MONDAY! UGH! CASE OF THE MONDAY! MONDAY MURDERED MY SPOUSE!” And he’ll give you a raise for being hilarious. But then tuesday we’re all supposed to pretend like everything’s fine? Shut up! It’s not! It’s just monday again with less days after it and my spouse is still deceased. Tuesday is the new monday. It’s longer than monday. You’re expected to perform your job and perform sexually with a potential new spouse as if it’s a good day or something. But it’s not. It’s terrible. Fuck it.

Wednesday

Wednesday is tuesday’s dumb jerkoff buddy. They have to hang out together because everyone hates them. Wednesday sucks because every time you try to write “wednesday,” you’re pretty sure you got it wrong. It’s a terrible day and terrible word. Better to call it by its nickname, “hump day.” While “hump” used to only define something we need to get over, like a bump in the road or a hillock or an extended period of grief, it now also applies to women’s butts. So every wednesday, women post pictures of their butts on Instagram with captions like, “It’s the #humpday my bitches!” This makes wednesdays a little more fun I guess, if you’re into that. I wish I could enjoy these women and their humps. But I just miss my wife. I miss my wife’s humps.

Monday

I’ve explained why mondays are not as bad as people say. Doesn’t mean they’re awesome, or even in the top four days of the week. A lady in my office always says “Happy Monday!” in my face, even on the first monday I returned to work after losing my beloved. I hate this woman, but hating her doesn’t mean I have to hate monday. Still, monday is a work day and you are staring down the barrel of four more work days after that without my wife’s beautiful singing voice filling the kitchen in the mornings, so, yeah, no thanks to monday all the same. 

Sunday

Sundays can be pretty shitty for sure. Some people hate them. I sure used to hate them. I never thought it’d be so hard to be alone. Just me and Eleanor’s cat whom I have never liked. I didn’t feed him for the first full week after her passing. I told myself it was out of my own grief and inability to do anything, but I know that secretly I wanted him dead so that I wouldn’t have to look into his black eyes and see her. But in our shared sadness around the tragedy, we’ve forged a sort of alliance. And the one Sunday morning I ate chinese food while pricing guns on the internet and little Jasper ran up and, out of pure starvation, grabbed my egg roll out of my hand with his desperate little paws was the first morning I’ve laughed in a long time. 

Thursday

A woman on the bus smiled at me last Thursday and I couldn’t help but notice how beautiful she was. I smiled back. I felt actual desire for the first time in I don’t know how long. I was immediately overcome with shame. I got home and tried to masturbate to a photograph of Eleanor, but it didn’t feel right, it felt like a disservice to her and to myself and the love we shared, and now I fear the only ejaculation I’ll ever again be capable of will come from my eyes and not my penis. Tears, I mean. My eyes ejaculate tears. 

Friday

Friday night is great and magical enough to make Friday the best day of the week since you know you have two days ahead of not having to do anything but the fact is you still have to go to work during the daytime and sure people treat you nice because it’s Friday and your spouse is gone so people think hey let’s not expect too much of each other let’s just treat this as a weekend day where we happen to be at work but you’re still at work and work is terrible so that’s why Saturday’s better IMHO.

Saturday

Saturday. Yeah, baby. Saturday. Our favorite day. Remember, baby? Remember, my sweet Eleanor? I never liked going to the farmers’ market but you made me go every Saturday morning and now I still go every Saturday morning and I bring Jasper with me. I walk him with a leash and everything, like he’s a little doggy. He loves it. We can both feel your presence there, your good spirit, still unable to find a perfect tomato. That’s one thing I did on this earth that you were sadly unable to do. I found a perfect tomato. I found you, Eleanor. 

[chefbrad]

THE HARNESS

I walk dogs for money, so what??! Stop telling me to have more ambition. I’m fine! Dogs find me to be soothing presence because we have same brain capacity. Seriously, I’m dumb. Here’s a dumb story about me being dumber than a dog. I have a hundred stories like this: 

I went to pick up dog at new client’s house. Client not home. This is not unusual. Dog is real client, and it was sure as shit home. He was an okay dog. Nothin special about him. Or any dog. Only special dog is St. Bernard that brings hot chocolate to freezing guy, which is a lie humans made up.

I found dog’s leash (won’t give away dog’s name. Let’s call him “Unspecial Barry”). Next to leash was a harness, but it looked odd. It looked like harness I saw once at someone’s house and said, “That’s a weird harness” and they said, "That is not harness, it just keeps him from bouncing around in car.” 

So this harness looked like EXACT SAME “carness.” Same colors and EVERYTHING. So of course I didn’t put that harness on Unspecial Barry. Why would I? What am I, taking dog for car ride? No, I’m walking it. I am dog walker.

Unspecial Barry was all over the place during walk. Really needed to be harnessed. Maybe that harness was not a car harness but a harness harness? When we got back, I didn’t even check that harness to see if it might be harness. I just left. Then I made my fatal mistake. 

I texted owner, “Does Unspecial Barry have harness? Didn’t see one, and he really needs one.” Owner said, “Yeah he has harness, didn’t you see it? It’s right by leash. You had to have seen it. I’m so confused right now by what you’re telling me. Please clarify.” 

I realized I’d texted a very dumb thing. Coulda just texted, “Hey, that was a great walk with Unspecial Barry! Bye.” Instead outed myself as idiot by pretending I didn’t see harness. So now was I to say, “Oh I thought that was a car harness”? No, that would sound dumb! So I just said, “Oh, sorry, had another dog with me that was running around so I just grabbed the leash and we left, didn’t see harness, sorry!” That was a lie. There was no extra dog. 

Client did not respond.

Received text from boss that night: “Apparently, you are never walking Unspecial Barry again.” Client had called boss to tell him I am idiot and they don’t want idiot around their dog, making their dog all dumb. 

I was so embarrassed. “Damn that car harness I saw once!” I thought. “Damn it to hell!” Thought I might be fired for this. I had to find out where I saw that car harness. If I could only prove that it looked exactly like the harness at the client’s house, I could prove I’m not a total idiot, just kind of one. I racked my brain. “Where oh where did I see that car harness?! It had to be somewhere!” But then my boss never mentioned the incident so there was no need to defend myself and I really think the car harness thing was just a dream I had.